


Ransom of the Red-Headed League

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Advent Amnesty Stories [6]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Advent Amnesty, Crossover, Gen, WIP, Women Being Awesome, the rating will almost certainly change, the warnings will almost certainly change, this will get finished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8779501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: These are not the redheads you wanted to hold hostage.





	1. Chapter 1

2011 -- Paris

Ten minutes ago, the Musée de l'Armees ballroom had glittered with faceted gemstones and polished cufflinks, crystalline light fixtures and sparkling wit. Now the gala had fractured into terrified guests surrounded by soldiers in dark blue uniforms that looked like full body haz-mat suits. Even their weapons seemed color-coordinated, with energy packs straight out of Hollywood glowing a brighter blue.

The lights had gone out just before the gala had been invaded. They hadn't come back up, either. Instead, the intruders had set out a grid of battery-operated lanterns that gave off a sharp-edged white light. That and the blue of the invaders' guns were the only lights in the room.

Quiet was mounding up in the room, deeper here, shallower there, but everywhere it was the wrong kind of silence at any event, much less a charity fundraiser. Pointed rifles had silenced the string quartet and Opera Paris' lead baritone. The occasional nervous chatter of the guests rose in the gaps between the patrolling soldiers and died sharply when guns shifted to point at those who'd spoken.

What worried Rebecca most were the four person squads sweeping through the guests far too efficiently. They were confiscating all electronic equipment -- cell phones, Blackberries, watches with too many functions, the occasional tablet that some of the men had had concealed in their jackets -- and they weren't taking no for an answer. One woman was going to have a black eye, and she was holding up a companion who needed a doctor soon, judging from the amount of blood pouring down from his head wound to ruin the satin lapels on his tux and clash with the cerise walls.

Rebecca balanced in her heels, grateful she'd ignored Amanda's opinion and stuck to a sensible height. She hadn’t seen Amanda or Marcus yet.

Rebecca couldn’t decide if that was a good sign. Either she had help on the outside… or the soldiers had kept Amanda out, which would require more force than Rebecca wanted to consider.

She shoved that thought aside and traded a glance with Sean. He looked away from her to the guns, let a faint frown shift his mouth and went neutral again in the space of half a second. Rebecca gave him the faintest of nods, set her face to show a shallow calm over nonexistent panic, and surrendered her cellphone when the soldiers got to them. She might as well; it wasn't receiving any signals just now.

Sean surrendered his as well, watching the soldiers as closely as Rebecca was. Unlike the other confiscations, the soldiers paused in front of them. The two immortals stilled, watching and waiting to see which contingency plans would be needed. Rebecca wasn't entirely surprised when one of the soldiers grabbed her arm.

His grip was tight enough to leave bruises later if she'd been mortal. She might yet regret this sleeveless gown, although she'd thought the blue and green shading too gorgeous to resist. His rifle slid over his shoulder as he reached for her face with his other hand. His fingers held her jaw tightly as he angled her face up to the light, turning it from one side to the other with an equal lack of interest in her comfort or consent.

"You'll come with us." He looked at Sean, gestured to his partner, and they grabbed Sean, too; two of them for Sean. Not nearly wise enough, that, but neither of the immortals was fool enough to start anything yet. "Resist and hurt," he said flatly.

Sean went with them quietly enough, his steps soundless on the black and white tile floor. He fell in by Rebecca's side and surprised her by staying silent.

She had little attention to spare for that though, however; the mercenary 'escorting' her tried to yank her off balance. 

Fortunately, Rebecca had expected it and moved with him. He huffed a frustrated sound and kept up his quick pace, trying to haul her along by sheer speed, which also didn't work. His final attempt to assert some control was predictable, fortunately; he tried to shove Rebecca into two women being held at gunpoint in front of some French doors.

The shorter woman's coloring wasn't quite right for her shalwar kameeze. Her hair was dark enough, and her skin tan enough that she could reasonably claim to be Sri Lankan, at least. But to Rebecca's eyes, she wore the outfit like a bodyguard who'd chosen formal wear she could fight in. Given her companion, she almost certainly could.

The taller woman with her was a strawberry blonde in a deep blue gown who looked like she and Rebecca must be sister or cousins, which might explain the guards' reactions. Rebecca had no offspring and had long since lost track of her adoptive family's tree, but she would normally be pleased at the possibility of being distantly related to the newest CEO of Stark Industries. Just now, she was hoping to be able to do something to protect the woman backing Stark's pullout from weapons design and manufacture.

Without having to discuss it, Sean shifted to block Pepper Potts into the middle of the group. She was taller than the rest of them, but Rebecca liked the look of her face and the lines of spine and shoulders; Pepper would duck if it came to shooting and keep her composure to run if she got a chance.

A pile of confiscated electronics had accumulated in the center of the ballroom. When the last mercenary tossed a final StarkPad onto it, a man Rebecca had tentatively identified as the second-in-command threw something onto the heap. It flashed blue light instead of the usual crack of explosive powder, and left behind a smell closer to ozone than cordite.

Rebecca shifted just enough to trade glances with Sean; his tuxedo jacket brushed her bare shoulder as she did. He gave her a barely perceptible nod, sober and worried for the mortals, and murmured, "Amanda?"

So he hadn't seen Amanda either. Rebecca shook her head and asked, equally quiet, "Marcus?"

"Not yet."

Behind them Pepper exhaled, sounding more resigned than frightened, and said softly, "Here we go again."

Sean glanced at Pepper Potts and asked softly, "Enemies of your company?"

"Whoever they are, I'm pretty sure they're everyone's enemy," she said calmly. "But no, I don't know who they are." She frowned a little. "And with weapons like that, I really should."

Rebecca considered her, faintly amused by how much they looked alike. Not twins, but close enough in another era -- much the same height, the same cheekbones and mouth, hair within a shade or two, which had become simple enough to match. Unfortunately, this era also had ubiquitous cell phones and cameras, so they probably couldn't pull off a trade. "Your face is a little too well known for us to trade gowns."

Pepper first looked surprised, then considering. "We could pass for sisters, I think, and we're almost the same height… but I doubt we'll get a chance, or that you'd want to."

Sean said mildly, "Oh, I imagine there will be people coming for both of you. I think we'd better keep the rest of the guests calm."

Without a touch of irony, Pepper agreed, "Absolutely."

"Quiet." The order came from the second-in-command, who turned, hand resting deliberately on his holster. It was a pity their uniforms didn't have name tags. Rebecca could have made use of that. Of course, given a chance, she'd apply the evil overlord rules about anonymity too.

Sean said calmly, "Are we allowed to sit down, sir?"

The second-in-command turned to consider them more carefully, then looked between Rebecca and Pepper, frowning. He raised a hand to his ridiculous-looking headpiece -- really, those oversized masks were going to make them fish in a barrel if either immortal got them away from the hostages -- and then received his orders. "Right there." He pointed to a small table by the wall with four chairs.

It was already occupied, but the blue-uniformed men made short shift of hauling the two older women out of their chairs, which drew indignant protests from their escorts and children. The women just took offered arms to get away from the soldiers.

This table wasn't the best choice the soldiers could have made. It still had a tablecloth on it, as well as a wide flower arrangement which blocked much of their sightlines. Rebecca sat down before the idiot soldier could change his mind. Sean, Pepper, and Pepper's bodyguard all took seats of their own before the man could try to tell them he only wanted his two targets.

Sean sat nearest the soldiers; Rebecca inched her chair back after Pepper sat down, which nudged Pepper closer to the wall and gave Rebecca more room to cover her. The bodyguard, who hadn't said a word yet, took the other chair by the wall. Like Rebecca, she scooted just that little bit back, hedging Pepper in.

Pepper waited until the blue-clad man had turned away again to say quietly, "Not that I don't appreciate it, but this really isn't safe for you."

Rebecca held her face from matching her voice when she promised, "It will be a great deal less safe for them when their grip on this slips." The bodyguard didn't react, which made Rebecca wonder how much those sharp eyes had noticed about Sean and herself.

Sean said softly, "Soon now, very soon. This was the wrong population sample to try this on."

Other gala participants were arguing for seats now, for themselves or for others. The cello player who was at least eight months along was settled at a table first. Rebecca gave it two chances in five that she'd go into labor as soon as this was over, but that problem would have to wait. Madame Hebert, who was ninety if she was a day -- and only admitted to seventy-five, if severely pressed by a 'mannerless lout' –- was next, then the two who were injured. An heirloom silk velvet shawl was ruined, as was the table linen, but his bleeding had slowed.

Pepper buried her face in her hands for a moment, doing a credible impersonation of a worried woman as she said softly, "Jarvis, headcount is forty--"

Her bodyguard leaned into Sean flirtatiously and murmured, "Forty-six."

Pepper corrected immediately, "--forty-six so far, wearing dark blue dive suits with hazmat helmets, carrying blue-light energy weapons including grenades. No idea how they got in. Motive still unknown. Tell Phil immediately when you get through the jamming and get this."

Rebecca said softly, "Tell your friends to contact Marcus Constantine for a site expert."

Pepper barely had time to add that before the second-in-command turned back to them. He glared at them, either intrinsically suspicious or just worried about the things a woman who could run one of the top five tech firms in the world might be up to.

Rebecca reached over to cradle Pepper's hands under hers, an extra protection for her vulnerable, mortal skull. She also gave the mercenary the same glare she'd given him for yelling at Madame Hebert.

He finally snapped, "Sit up, Miss Potts. Hands on the table at all times or you'll be shot -- and not somewhere immediately fatal."

Of course, then he had to deal with the panicky responses of the other gala attendees.

Idiot.

* | * | *


	2. Chapter 2

Phil Coulson waved one of the juniors agents over to talk to the sergeant from the Prefecture of Police, relieved that Fontaine had ended up based out of Europe. She spoke fluent French and was very soothing without actually giving away information.

Once the police were under control again, he went back to the much more important discussion. "Jarvis, if at all possible, I need the old plans for the Musée de l'Armée, the ones from after the rebuilding of Paris but before World War II. If they aren't available online, we'll send agents for the hard copies as soon as you have a location. And let me know as soon as you crack that jammer."

"Of course, Agent Coulson. I believe I should be through in approximately five minutes more." Jarvis added, "Ms. Potts will have left me useful data."

Jarvis either didn't have permission to discuss it or didn't think 'how' was relevant right now; either way, his data was always reliable and Phil had other matters to work on. "I'll be here when you've got it," he agreed and tapped his comm to mute input until Jarvis got back to him.

The next task was to find out how the invading force had gotten in unseen, to make plans for a counterattack. Ideally, Coulson wanted a second, separate way that a SHIELD team could go in equally unseen and hit from within, but first they had to figure out how this OpFor had done it. They also needed to figure out who the OpFor was.

The local SHIELD team had set up a base camp just outside the organized chaos of the police perimeter. Three folding tables had shown up, their surfaces almost buried in tablets displaying images coming in from agents around the building. One analyst was busily notating a map, while four more ran facial recognition searches from the photos, hoping for the best and not getting many hits yet.

Before Coulson could make it over to see if they'd found any new maps, he heard a voice he knew from more than twenty South American and European field ops. There were very good reasons Sebastian Holzer had ended up the senior agent for Western Europe. "Coulson, I have a 'civilian' I want you to meet."

Coulson had no trouble catching the irony in Holzer's description. He glanced back at the outer police line in time to see Holzer waving a stranger in. Holzer fell in at the civilian's shoulder in perfect position to contain him; somehow the stranger made it look like a subaltern walking next to a senior officer.

Hearing that thought focused Coulson's attention more tightly on the newcomer in question. Short-cropped curling brown hair had receded much like Coulson's own, but it was the expression and stance that led Coulson move to greet him. Despite his tuxedo, the newcomer didn't look like a politician or a socialite. He was slim, alert, and carried himself like a military man on a battlefield, spine straight and head constantly moving as he took in details. He also had his hands free and ready for trouble.

The stranger's eyes were flicking steadily across the open ground between the line of agents and the façade of the Musée; he took in the gala attendees silhouetted against the curtains of the French windows and his mouth tightened. When his attention turned to Coulson, the stranger returned the same swift evaluation he'd just received; he nodded after that second's glance, filing the information and tentatively pleased.

Any other time, this meeting and their reactions would have been amusing or grounds for an invitation for coffee and a meeting of like minds. Now Coulson thought he might end up glad to have this man here if he was half as competent as he appeared.

Holzer let his glance travel over his team's work as he came to a halt in a spot that left the 'civilian' bracketed between the two senior SHIELD agents on site. He also used English to say, "Mr. Constantine, this is Philip Coulson, a senior SHIELD agent and our expert on Stark Industries and its people. Coulson, this is Marcus Constantine. He's a director at the Musée de l'Armée and asked to come annotate the maps for us."

Up close, Constantine's hair showed some grey at the temples which made his next words more credible. He used British-accented English when he said quietly, "Agents. To be precise, I've worked here for twenty years. I probably know the building better than anyone but the cleaning staff and they're trapped in there. If I may show you my wallet, it has my ID card and you're welcome to confirm that information."

Holzer nodded his agreement. "The information and the ID would both be helpful. Thank you, sir."

Constantine extracted his wallet from his jacket pocket and his ID from his wallet, moving slowly and precisely.

Holzer took the proffered card and handed it over to one of his agents, almost without looking. Almost; it didn't go to the nearest man. "In the meantime, what maps we have are over here, sir."

Constantine followed them to the center of the tables, ignoring the techs to focus in on the printouts that had just been dropped on the center of the table. "And if I'm lying, prison time will be the least of my worries?"

Holzer smiled, a quick twist of lips under a mustache as black as his hair was prematurely white. "That sums it up neatly."

Coulson shrugged. What he wanted was blueprints; what they had so far, was a line diagram of the Musée from its website. Most of the interior walls probably weren't on there. On the other hand, they now had a museum director. "We'll hope you check out, yes. Until then, let's see what you can tell us. You're former military, Mr. Constantine?"

"Everyone asks that," Constantine said absently, one hand flicking through the diagrams on a large tablet; the image looked like the Google Maps view of the area, but it had SHIELD annotations on it. "I'm Marcus, by the way, or Marc if you're really in a hurry."

Which didn't answer the question, but it wasn't a bad deflection. "If I'm in that much of a hurry, sir, it will just be duck, get down, or run." Coulson added, "Our major concern so far is that we don't yet know their entry point. Do you have any idea how at least two dozen men with weapons could get in unnoticed?"

Constantine looked up. "The South Korean Consulate didn't see anything?"

"Their sightlines are restricted, but no, they didn't. Or so they told our agents." Holzer shrugged. "Take it with a grain of salt, but they have a mutual interest in reporting so large a security hole."

Coulson's phone pinged at him, and he announced, "I have blueprints from the 1980s." He set the email attachment printing, snagging the first pages as they came off and dropping them onto the table. 

Holzer helped arrange them into order, saying only, "Bless your contacts, Phil."

Constantine nodded. "Agreed. These are more useful than the '50s plans." He snagged a bright blue pen and began marking occasional doors closed or openings in walls as he went. Agent Solberg, one of Natasha's favorite analysts, was already taping pages together to make the floor plans easier to read.

Constantine took the new floor with an absent thank you, annotating and trading sheets back and forth with Solberg until the taped and marked floors were spread in an arc on the table, basement at the left, third floor at the right.

"If you don't know how they got in, then you don't know how they can get out, much less might get out. Yes. I know of five possibilities." That statement brought the techs' heads around, and Holzer shifted to watch Constantine even more attentively, settling into a patient, waiting alertness that took in the maps and the man's hands.

Constantine ignored both sets of reactions and took the red pen Solberg gave him to start circling problem areas. "First floor: here and here. The walls were there this morning, but in the 1800s there were accesses from the old sewer system. They were bricked up, painted over, and mostly forgotten when new sanitation lines were run to accommodate the Metro, but I have never heard, nor seen plans indicating, that the ladders were removed." He indicated a third location. "The Metro line originally had stairs up to us, debouching into the foyer here when this was still the Veterans' Memorial."

Coulson nodded slowly. "I wondered if they couldn't have found some kind of underground access somewhere. There are too many of them, and the catering company is too well-known and well-vetted to have this many attackers infiltrate them."

"And too many embassies nearby would have noticed a great many fit, active strangers, yes. I'd consider the Metro access the most likely if they came in from that floor." Constantine shifted the map to display the second story. "This is a storage room now, but at one time, this wall was a doorway into the west wing. They could have come through the second floor hallway there; security would have been lower there but there's still too much chance they'd have been observed by embassy security."

He pulled over the basement map and circled an area near the stairs, tapping it as he said, "Your last option is that they've come up through basement, via the old water run-offs to the Seine."

The Prefecture sergeant had come up while they were talking; he stared first at the plans and then at Constantine. "My God. Those are the city maintenance tunnels, sir. We monitor them."

Constantine shook his head. "I don't mean the maintenance tunnels, sergeant. I mean the old Roman sewers under them. A tunnel ran… here." He traced a line along the maintenance tunnel, veering slightly upriver at the last moment. "You monitor the tunnels to watch for flooding. I very much doubt you monitor five meters from your tunnel's end point. If they used divers, they could come and go with minimal notice. The entry was probably silted, but they have to have been preparing this for a while. If so, they've had time to clear the old sewer, come in a few meters up, and then drill in and loop your cameras." He shrugged, wry and resigned, and went on, "Who'd notice? Any number of boats up and down the Seine are still being used as housing; it's fashionable. One good party could cover the divers and one heavy rain would excuse the silt load in the water. It's only a matter of timing."

Coulson promised himself that coffee and a long talk with this man later -- after a very thorough background check. "Useful starting points. Thank you, Mr. Constantine." Five seconds' rapid calculation left him resigned to the necessity, but it wasn't his operation. Holzer got to make the call, and take the blame if Constantine were injured or killed. 

Holzer stroked his mustaches up into a curve, then back to straight while he thought. Phil still thought he'd read too much Poirot although Sebastian always claimed it was to see who'd underestimate him. Behind Constantine, Rietveld was holding his ID back and giving a thumbs-up. Holzer reached for it without looking away from Phil. He also raised an eyebrow, waggling one thumb up and back down as he glanced at the Musée.

Coulson reluctantly nodded, then held up a hand and moved aside when he heard a throat being cleared, tapping his comm off of mute. "Jarvis. What do you have for me?"

"News from Ms. Potts, sir, and an address for more up-to-date floor plans. If the set I already sent will do, however, I suspect you have other priorities. As of seven minutes ago, the known count was forty-six enemy forces, described as wearing dark blue dive suits with hazmat helmets. They are carrying blue-light energy weapons, including grenades. The only match I have for such a description is from Howling Commando reports during World War II, in missions against Hydra strongholds. Ms. Potts did not know how they got in, nor their motive."

"She said dive suits, Jarvis?" The sewer option seemed more likely as an access if so, but… what was their goal?

"Yes, Agent. She specified hazmat helmets as well; her phrasing would seem to indicate that the entire outfit is dark blue. Ms. Potts' final comment was that one Marcus Constantine would be a site expert."

Coulson glanced to the side where Constantine was discussing viewpoints up and downstream on the Seine. "He's already turned up."

"I have taken the liberty of sending you a picture of him from the museum's website, matched against society pages from three Parisian newspapers, so that you can confirm his identity," Jarvis said. "Last, Ms. Potts has acquired assistance of some type. Another woman suggested Mr. Constantine and Ms. Potts immediately agreed. I do not know who it was; I have never heard her voice before."

"Are they varying the jamming, Jarvis, or are you still in?" Coulson checked his phone. "And yes. The photos you found match. Thank you."

"Good. For the moment, I still have access. I believe I have sorted out their style, as sir would say. Should Ms. Potts transmit again, I will let you know immediately. I suggest you move quickly, Agent Coulson. Having looked at the floor plans, I see no feasible way they can hope to hold that building with only forty-six people. They must retreat soon, with or without their hostages."

Coulson nodded. "I know. Contact me as soon as you have anything else, Jarvis."

"Of course," Jarvis said and cut the line again.

Coulson turned back and told Holzer, "All right, we have an update. Current OpFor count is forty-six." Activity around the ops table slowed and Solberg started making notes. "Description was 'dark blue dive suits with hazmat helmets.' Ms. Potts also reported blue-energy weapons."

Rietveld looked up and said, "Are you sure the suits were dark blue, sir?"

"Yes. Why?"

Holzer shook his head. "My problem for now, Coulson. Anything else?"

"It's not bad enough?" The color was a relevant detail at the least, maybe a new problem. It wasn't his problem just now, so Coulson set it aside for the current issues. "More news as I get it."

"Right." Holzer said calmly, "All agents: Agent Coulson has the lead to retake the museum. Priority is the safety of the hostages, but if you can get me prisoners, do it. I have the perimeter and all necessary diplomacy. Rietveld: go in with them and report to me as soon as you have any news on the outfits or the weapons. Solberg and Fontaine are mine, Phil; strip the rest as necessary. I'll coordinate with the Prefecture and call in backup." Dark brown eyes met Coulson's, equally worried by the new weapons.

Holzer's grandmother had been Hydra; he might be more worried than Phil.

Coulson nodded. "Flak jackets, people; some of the weaponry will probably still be standard. Break into five man teams. I want point person for each team back here in two." Coulson turned to their civilian – not that Constantine was – and asked, "Are you willing to stay in case we need further help, Mr. Constantine? I can get you a vest, but I can not guarantee your safety."

Constantine nodded, and Coulson had no doubts that he'd always planned to go in with them, one way or another. "I'm not asking ask you to, Agent Coulson. I have friends in there, and coworkers, and patrons who are here because I sent them invitations. Beyond that, I suspect you'll need my assistance flushing out rats, if nothing else. Give me a vest and I'll go with you as a native guide and translator where necessary."

"Why aren't you in there now, sir?" Coulson asked, watching squads of agents form up and debating which of them could both guard Constantine and be discriminating about which of his orders they followed. His orders would almost certainly be useful; the question was how far his interests and SHIELD's ran together.

Constantine gestured at the police line. "The lady in the midnight blue ball gown is the widow of one of our senior generals; she's one of the guiding forces behind the Widows and Orphans Fund tonight's function was to benefit. Her train from Avignon ran late." He added dryly, "Yes, I know you have to check that too. Madame Duval, coming in on the 6:40 train. She was supposed to have been in on the 2:00, but her daughter presented her with a grandson."

Coulson nodded. "We don't have time to check; you're going. Solberg—"

Solberg had been digging in a van; she turned back around with body suit and two pairs of boots. "Mr. Constantine. You'll stand out too much in the suit in the middle of our teams; they'd shoot you as an intel asset. One of the pairs of boots should fit, I think. And I'll go check Madame Duval, Agent Coulson."

She set off towards the line at a fast jog that didn't seem frantic and Coulson made a mental note to see if she wanted to transfer back to the helicarrier. 

Constantine had the tac suit in one hand, the two pairs of boots in the other, but he hadn't moved to change or simply started stripping off there. Coulson would personally have put money on the latter if Barton had been there and offering the bet. "What is it?"

Constantine was scanning the area with eyes more than head. He finally shook his head and said quietly, "I'm not entirely sure." He turned away and began to change, but he'd been watching the line of police and onlookers rather than his museum.

That worried Coulson, too.

* | * | *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the Marvel Wiki list Jarvis the AI as being J.A.R.V.I.S., but I found even JARVIS to be jarring to the eye in a long piece of text.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, Commentary, and Miscellanea:
> 
> Yes. The actress who played Rebecca on Highlander does look ridiculously like Gwynneth Paltrow. See [here](http://celebrityimages.org/thumbs/0131689/0131689_5.jpeg) (for Rebecca) and [here](http://cdn.movieweb.com/img.news.tops/NEs1A72Qo7hSvt_2_b.jpg) (for Pepper) and see what you think.


End file.
